"The fans are loud. You're living in the Olympic Village, with your national teammates, talking about winning something for your country."

When the All-England Club was back to its impregnable green and white, during the championships in 2011, Djokovic won the singles and was so overwhelmed he began tasting the grass itself.

Here, as he eliminated Tsonga, he flexed and pumped his fist and yelled as passionately as he might in a Grand Slam quarterfinal, and then lofted several tennis balls into the section of Serbians that kept chanting "No-Vak" throughout.

The Olympics and Wimbledon are two giant, global sporting titans. Somehow the Games fit snugly inside.

Out at the Potemkin village known as Olympic Park, pre-fab arenas stand among grim iron fences and high barricades. It is treeless, yet still cold.

Most of the buildings won't be around long after these Games. In a city that embraces its own history, these Olympics will come and go without much of a footprint.

But at Wimbledon, the Games are a guest. Tennis has brought a higher percentage of the world's best players than men's basketball has, lured by medals but also by a second trip to Wimbledon within a month.

If Murray wins here, who's to say it won't be as sweet as the All-England championship, which he missed by one match in July? The fans still gather on "Murray Mountain," the rise behind Court 1, where Murray ran Nicolas Almagro off the court Thursday.

Murray always plays for his country, especially here, and so does Djokovic. When "Nole" won Wimbledon he flew home to a national festival in the main square of Belgrade.

But, yes, it's different. Two of three sets, instead of three of five, the better to get it done quickly so the players can go back to the chase-your-tail world of touring tennis.

"The crowds aren't the same as in the championships," said a Wimbledon veteran, in charge of a fourth-floor cafeteria. "You never hear a crying baby on Centre Court during the championships."

The chime of cellphones is also tolerated.

"It's the first time a lot of them have ever gotten inside the gates," the guy said. "It's quite lovely, actually. It reminds me of when they let everybody in on that middle Sunday (1996) for the first time."

He smiled. "But we haven't had much business," he said. "In fact, we haven't opened the press bar."

He shuddered to think of the repercussions of such a thing, during the championships.

Wimbledon itself is south of London, where the money is, and the houses get grander as one takes the 15-minute walk from Southfields Station.

It's very British in the sense that there is hardly any wasted footage, except for Murray Mountain (formerly Henman Hill).

Court 18 is adorned with a plaque commemorating Isner's three-day victory over Nicolas Mahut in 2010, the one that reached 70-68 in the fifth set.

On television it seemed as if that match were played in its own province. But Court 18 is actually a tight little hotbox maybe 70 yards away from Centre Court.

When players like Murray and Federer emerge from underneath the stands on Court 1 or Centre Court, no introduction is given or necessary. The fans applaud as if an old friend had come over for tea.

Murray, the Scot, is worshipped, and to watch him doggedly run down impossible shots is to realize there probably never has been a No. 4 player in the world that comes anywhere near him. He has not won a Slam simply because the trinity (Federer, Djokovic and the absent Rafael Nadal) won't let him.

Unlike the monolithic Arthur Ashe Stadium in New York, comprised of brick and hedge-fund money, Wimbledon is low-slung and chummy. When Tsonga was down love-30 in his final game, someone bellowed, "Come on, Jo, he's tiring!" The majority laughed, and it appeared Djokovic was trying not to.

There was the bizarre sight, and sound, of a techno band serenading Murray Mountain with a version of Willie Nelson's "Always On My Mind," complete with video. Besides that, the entertainment was organic.

Wimbledon, you realized, is where these Games come when they want to be All-England.